Author's note: My sincerest apologies for the wait. I've had a good chunk of this chapter written for God knows how long but everything came up (if I began to explain you'd ask if I lived in a soap opera) and I unfortunately had no access to my laptop. I appreciate and adore your reviews and I'm aware the kiss came out of nowhere (and probably seems like it didn't fit - in retrospect I wish I'd written it differently, but this is a write-as-you-go piece) but it's been, in my mind, part of the story since I fully realized the plot.
You are all so amazing and marvelous and I want to thank you for continuing to read this. It means the world to me that people give a fuck (no matter how tiny that fuck might be). Sorry for any typos or mistakes; I try my best to find them but sometimes they slip through. xx
(/)
Brittany offers to drive you home, explaining how she doesn't want to interrupt Santana and Puck's much-needed bonding via Mario Kart and a tub of Moose Tracks ice cream. When you tell her you'd rather she take you to Quinn's house, she replies with a firm nod and opens the passenger door for you before sliding into the driver's seat.
As she pulls out of the driveway and turns in the opposite direction of Quinn's street, you narrow your eyes at her and clear your throat.
"Scenic route," she says.
It's quiet for a few blocks before she turns on the heater and begins to speak in her soft lilt.
"I know it's all about Quinn, about what she went through and all that awful, awful crap, but she's not the only one who's hurt," Brittany murmurs.
You nod slowly, waiting to see where she's going with this. It's Brittany; her words will always go deeper.
The car turns into a neighbourhood of bungalows and station wagons. "We were eight when we first saw Quinn cry. I didn't think it was weird because everybody cries, but Santana knew immediately that something was wrong." Brittany takes a breath. "She was crying because she spilled chocolate ice cream all over her Sunday dress. But it wasn't just crying… She was shaking. She almost threw up, she was sobbing so hard."
"Over ice cream?" you ask, but deep down you know.
Brittany's forced smile slips into a frown of remorse. "Her dad found her crying in the kitchen and picked her up by her arms, right in front of Santana and me. He was screaming so loud I thought for sure my ears were going to pop and Santana put her hands over them so it wasn't as bad, but we pretty much tried to be invisible when he whipped out his bible and started spanking her. Have you ever seen a little girl get spanked?"
The mere thought chokes your lungs and you claw at the seatbelt, desperate to breathe.
"Over ice cream," she whispers. "And we did nothing; just sat with our backs pressed to the fridge, Santana covering my ears, as Quinn shut down. Then I knew why she was crying so hard about a chocolate stain. Because it meant more than a little stain remover and another run through the washing machine. It meant being hit with the book she lived by while having psalms screamed at her until she was completely silent."
"Russell's a monster," you say softly, eyes fixed to the pine tree air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.
"He is what he is," she replies. "But he broke his little girl and that broke something in Santana and since then, whenever Quinn cries Santana cries. Whenever Quinn's hurt, Santana's hurt. And I guess… Right now it looks like you're what's keeping them both together."
"Is this about the kiss?"
She pauses at a stop sign, waiting for a small child to cross. "It could be."
The child trips and pitches forward, nearly face-planting into the asphalt and your stomach lurches with him before he catches his balance and makes it safely to the other side. Brittany takes her foot off the brake.
"She needs to hurt you so you'll hate her as much as she hates herself for what happened to Quinn," she says in a soft voice, glancing at you before fixing her eyes on the road.
The words come at you like a fist and settle immediately as knives in your belly, twisting and turning until you swear you're about to vomit but all that comes out is, "What?"
"If Quinn's hurt, Santana's hurt," Brittany repeats.
"I got that."
She gives a slight shrug and pulls up to a red light. "But if Quinn's hurt, no matter what happened, it's Santana's fault. And now, because Quinn's hurt, you're hurt. So in Santana's mind, you need to hate her for what she let happen."
"But I don't." And she didn't let-
"So she has to hurt you until you do and she hates herself for it and doesn't even really know what's going on." Brittany eases on the gas again and very carefully speeds past a small yellow bus, honking her horn as a child in the window tells her to. "She does it to me too, Rachel. It took me years to figure it out. But she can't help it."
"Why?" you ask. She laughs. "Do I have to hate her for things to get better?"
Shaking her head, she frowns. "No. I tried that before and she just feels even worse. I can talk to her?"
You nod. "It's not even her fault, what happened to Quinn. If anyone's to blame, it's me. She was coming to see me, and…"
"And it's not your fault either," Brittany replies.
People keep saying it but it doesn't ease any of your guilt. Had she not left her house that night, she'd still be okay. She's broken because she wanted to come see you. You broke her. No matter what anyone says, you know it's your fault. You have to make it right.
"How'd you get to be so smart, Brittany?"
She snorts and puts a hand on your leg just above your knee, giving you a small tap. "I'm not smart. Not really. I know about people and I know about cats, but…" She shrugs. "Everyone else knows more than me."
"That's not true," you say, straightening up in your seat.
She considers this for a moment, both her hands now on the steering wheel, drumming out a song only she can hear. "Well maybe it's easier when everyone thinks you don't know anything."
Armour, you think. She protects herself by feigning naivety, like you keep everyone out by talking far too fast and loud for anyone to want to come close. She hides behind it like Santana hides behind her cheerleading uniform and a ferocious scowl.
"And maybe I'm a little dyslexic," she admits. "But Santana helps take the wrinkles out of confusing words."
"She'll be okay?" It didn't start as a question, but halfway through you need Brittany's confirmation and she gives you a firm nod before pulling up to Quinn's house.
"We'll all be fine."
(/)
Judy's arms assault you the moment you step into the house. She hugs you tightly, pressing her cheek to the top of your head, careful not to spill the drink in her hand. Her breath smells like gin and regret.
When she pulls away you notice the creases around her eyes are more prominent than the last time you were here – she's finally starting to look her age.
"Quinn's sleeping," Judy says softly, half-motioning up the stairs with her glass. "I can make you something to eat?"
Nodding, you follow her into the kitchen and take a seat on one of the shiny barstools as she rummages through the fridge. From your spot, you can see dishes piling up in the sink and dust bunnies collecting in the corners of the room. The light fixtures cower behind cobwebs that sway slightly from an invisible draft. Abandoned, her glass sits by the stove.
She straightens up and turns to face you, worry etched in her skin. "I'm not quite sure what vegans eat," she admits.
You shake your head in dismissal. "I'm not actually very hungry."
"Tea?" she asks with a faint smile on her lips.
"Tea sounds lovely."
With two steaming cups of something herbal in front of you, perched on a pair of black barstools, the two of you sit in an easy silence and watch the spirals of heat rise up and disappear into the air. After awhile, Judy speaks.
"Finn came by today."
Your hands ball up into fists before you can gain control over your body and a hard frown falls over your face. "Finn."
She nods, as equally perturbed as you.
"He mumbled something ridiculous about it being his fault for breaking up with you or just being an ass – I wasn't really paying attention – and said he needed to be Quinn's boyfriend again so he could take care of her." Judy laughs and brings her mug up to her lips, sipping carefully. "I didn't even try to intervene when Quinnie threw a card table at him."
You snort and quickly try to cover up the noise by coughing, but it doesn't matter. Judy's laughing again and you join her, wishing you could've seen Finn Hudson be taken down by Quinn – again.
"You'd think with a head that big he'd at least have some brains," she mutters into her cup.
"General consensus says he's walked into too many street signs to have retained any intelligence," you deadpan.
This time it's Judy who snorts. "He's an attractive kid but he really needs to work on his self-oriented perspectives."
"That he does," you say.
What you'd give to see Finn actually do something for someone else for once and not just for his own selfish reasons.
Jud y must feel the same way because she starts in on a longwinded rant about when Quinn used to date him and it would be amusing if he didn't make you so mad. He comes into Quinn's safe space and asserts himself into her life when he hasn't even batted an eye about her since he broke up with you.
"He's such an ass," you growl, to Judy's amusement.
"Nearly as bad as my ex-husband," she says offhandedly, caressing her mug of tea in a way that seems too intimate for the situation. "Well, soon-to-be ex. The papers still haven't gone through but as soon as they do…" She releases a soft breath of a smile and shakes her head. "I'll be free."
"I've heard some… some stories," you offer, not exactly sure how to approach this. On the one hand, you feel like this isn't your business. On the other, you feel just as attacked by Russell as the rest of this family.
She nods slowly and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, sighing. "We went back and forth between fighting and forgetting. But it wasn't a happy marriage. I married to escape, you know. I wanted to leave my family behind and I ended up marrying a slightly funnier clone of my father."
"You didn't marry for love?" The idea seems absurd on your tongue.
"I think I was in love with the idea of it all," she murmurs. "And it was nice when it wasn't terrifying. He really did know how to make me laugh."
"He gave you two beautiful daughters," you suggest.
Judy's face lights up with pride and tenderness and she folds her hand over yours. "Those girls are my heartbeat. I would gladly throw myself in the line of fire again and again if it meant I could keep my angels."
"I'd do the same for Quinn," you say quietly, your voice raw with honestly.
"I know, sweetie. I know." She gives your hand a squeeze. "Sometimes I think about what would've happened had I not lost my Frannie. She married to escape us, just like I did. I can only hope she's happy. If I prayed…"
You nod, completely understanding.
"She has a daughter," Judy tells you, lowering her voice to the point of almost crying. "She didn't tell me but I found her Facebook profile and I saw the photos. She has a beautiful little girl. They called her Margaret."
"I think she's happy, then," you say earnestly.
Judy smiles faintly before bobbing her head in agreement. "I think so. She has a daughter of her own now…"
Maybe Quinn would've been happy had she kept her daughter, you think. Everything would be different but she'd wake up knowing someone else's life depended on her and she'd have to get out of bed. Maybe it wouldn't be happiness though; it could also drag her down past the point of coping.
"Quinn," Judy starts.
Without your consent, a hand waves the thought away and your mouth opens to speak. "Quinn needs to be a daughter a little longer before she can be a mother."
"Right; you're right. I know. Still I can't help think of how happy she looked when that baby was placed in her arms. And now…" Her shoulders come up in a half-hearted shrug that brings her cardigan up to her ears, falling down with a heavy sigh.
"I know," you whisper.
"Tell me it's not my fault," she asks with the most heartbreaking quivering smile. "Everything happens to Quinn and I can't… I never…"
This extends further out of your comfort zone than you'd ever intended to go, but you pull her into a hug, inhaling her comforting scent of faded lilacs, and tell her none of this has ever been her fault.
"It's not going to make a difference, placing blame," you say. "But there are so many people I could pin it on and you'll never be on that list. You love her."
"So do you, Rachel," she says into your collarbone.
You love her. You've been falling for so long and you've landed in love with her.
"I do."
(/)
Your papa picks you up in his station wagon and you've never before been so thankful to see the bumper full of ridiculous stickers boasting about his talented daughter. You have two fathers who love you and would move mountains for you. It doesn't feel like enough to just hug him when he shows up so you squeeze him tighter than the time you thought they'd forgotten you at ballet lessons.
"Papa," you mumble into his peppery warmth.
He strokes your hair with a calm ease and waits until you're ready to get in the car, not needing to ask any questions.
"I'm sorry," you tell him as you buckle your seatbelt.
He waves it away with a strong hand etched with years of hard work and tender touch.
"I haven't been running away," you try to explain. "I've been… people need me. A lot of people need me and I think I might really need them."
"I know, Papaya. It's okay." His voice washes over you, as soothing as it was when you were seven and struck with horrible nightmares that left you sobbing into your Sailor Moon sheets. "You do what you have to and we'll figure out what needs explaining once it's all over."
As soon as you're home, he runs you a hot bath and silently pours bubble bath solution into the water despite the fact he hasn't done this since you were twelve. His strong hands slip Funny Girl into the VCR beside the tub and he leaves you with your favourite fluffy towel.
"Papa?" you say before he leaves.
He stops in the doorway and responds with a smile.
"I love you," you tell him quietly. He knows. He says it back and heads downstairs to find his husband who is probably full of questions but knows enough to let you be.
You fall asleep that night with the foreign feeling of peace beginning to wash over everything. Tucked in your bed, underneath a thick duvet, you let a smile slip onto your lips as you drift off into the first dream in ages that hasn't included images of Quinn's rotting corpse. It's starting to get better.
(/)
In the morning, there's a warm body occupying the other half of your bed. An arm is wrapped around your midsection and some hair tickles the back of your neck while hot breath rests on your skin. Your first thought is to tell Quinn about your nightmare where she went missing and came back a different person. Your second thought is to scream.
Somehow, your subconscious takes over and your scream turns into a whispered gasp, alerting the other person to your being awake. They murmur into the pillow before pushing up off the bed, speaking to you.
"Morning," says a raspy female voice.
You roll over to see Santana's sleepy face smiling down on you and you're about to shove her away when you realize she's only wearing a thin t-shirt that looks as if it belonged, at one time, to Puck. The silhouettes of naked ladies adorn a good chunk of the front of the shirt and the neck's ripped enough to show you she's most likely wearing nothing underneath.
"What the hell, Santana?"
Realization settles in the skin of her forehead and she smirks sheepishly, pulling your duvet up to her chest. "I have an explanation."
"I'd love to hear it," you say curtly.
She sits up fully and wraps the duvet around her like a cape, forming a cave for you to lie inside. It's almost like those games you wish you could've played with someone else as a child, except you're seventeen and it's four-thirty in the morning.
"Britt and I had a fight last night," she says softly, in a voice admitting weakness and apology. "She was mad at me and I said some things I regret and I knew I couldn't go home to an empty house or else I'd do something stupid, so."
"So you snuck into my place?" you say, not at all amused.
She shrugs, biting her lip like a small child. "Sort of. Except your dad let me in."
You make a mental note to talk to your parents about acceptable behaviour regarding house guests and sleeping patterns.
"We have a guest bedroom, you know. And several couches. And plenty of floor space." You mean to stay angry at her but the regret in her eyes forces you to drop the grimace.
"I just needed to hold someone," she says.
"Puck didn't make the cut?"
Santana rolls her eyes at this and you marvel at the hint of who she used to be seeping into this conversation. "Puck snores. It's usually Quinn that I go to, when B and I fight, but…"
You get it. She nods.
"Had I been thinking last night, I would've brought actual clothes. Hell, had I been thinking I wouldn't have fought with Brittany but I did and now she's refusing to speak to me because apparently – and I know it's true – I'm a huge bitch," she says with a duck of her head.
Grumbling, you glance at the clock and then back at Santana, wondering exactly how long her explanation would take if you asked her what happened. Deciding it can wait, you pat the mattress and tell her there's still an hour and a half until your alarm and you might as well get a little more sleep.
She grins like a kid at a carnival and buries under the duvet with you, her arms once again pulling you into a cocoon of warmth. With a shake of your head, you wish her sweet dreams and wonder when your life became so intimate.